


Of Rogues and Revelations (and other bollocks)

by kleptoandpyro



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Afterlife Schmafterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Constantine, Canonical Character Death, Dark Magic, Gen, John Constantine Needs A Hug, John Constantine is an entire ho, Leonard Snart is in Denial, M/M, More angst than you realise, Pansexual Leonard Snart, Post-Oculus Leonard Snart, Rescue, Self-Acceptance, Self-Doubt, Self-Flagellation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, So much angst, Team as Family, this author approves of Scotch Eggs and so does Dante
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24103240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleptoandpyro/pseuds/kleptoandpyro
Summary: “All my life I’ve hurt people, conned them, made people’s lives a living Hell and now I find myself on this ship with you lot, hunted down by someone I’ve spent years trying to save and I don’t know which way is up."So I may not know Mr Snart like you do, but from what I do know about him, I reckon we have more in common than we know. So who knows, eh? I go pay him a visit and maybe we can help each other out.“...And he’s bloody gorgeous, so there’s that.”Or:The one in which Leonard Snart gets himself into a spot of bother in The Afterlife and John Constantine knows he's the only man for the job.Written for the Arrowverse Under Quarantine 2020 exchange.
Relationships: John Constantine & Leonard Snart, John Constantine & Sara Lance, John Constantine & Team Legends, John Constantine/Leonard Snart
Comments: 24
Kudos: 70
Collections: Arrowverse Under Quarantine





	1. Rogues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZadieWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZadieWrites/gifts).



> 1\. Posting 2 days late which I profusely apologize for. This fic took me hostage and I barely escaped with my life.
> 
> 2\. I'm a terrible human being (see above)
> 
> 3\. Prompt: Coldstantine, Quarantine.
> 
> This was a labour of death so if you like this then kudos to you, friend.

Of the things he’s capable of feeling, it’s the very uninspiring ‘doubt’ variety which is the worst kind, which affects him most, John thinks. More so than fear, than anger. Only makes his conscience shift uncomfortably even when reason and experience hold him firm and remind him over and over that he’s in the right.

And John can’t afford to be shaken, to be off-kilter. Because it’s precisely the swell of his will power and the steadiness of his hands and the intensity of his faith in his abilities that drives away the dark things. Gives him the strength to carry his burdens. Keeps the flame lit and guiding him forward into the unknown.

Not even the religious kind of doubt is as affecting, as there’s a marked difference between belief in Divine Judgement and outright knowing it’s there. And the rules are very clear on what happens to non-believers, rules which are written and immovable, and John knows precisely where he stands in that regard -- and where he will stand on Judgement Day, for that matter. It’s what allows him to just _bloody get on with it_ and keep one step ahead of the shadows. The finality affords a kind of peace, which he can appreciate. There’s a simplicity in the inevitable, and life could always do with being simpler.

But second guessing himself has ever led him down dangerous paths. Hesitation to act begets the illusion that he has a moral compass, which only leads to fruitless attachments, which leads to somebody dying. It’s as cyclic as the day and night, and part of the reason people are better off without him.

He does what he has to do because it has to be done, and for a long time this outlook was enough. 

When evil things picked themselves out of the dark corners, he was ready with a flame.

Whenever blood had to be spilled, he was always poised with a knife to his own skin.

Whenever the earth trembled beneath him, he always planted his feet and stood his ground.

But a new enemy has risen in John’s world, one which has no form, no name, which can’t be banished by any enchantment or sigil he knows of. Penetrates his mind and plays havoc with his thoughts with the efficiency of an angel and the tenacity of a demon. A conflict ever raging inside of him.

All the people he’s hurt.

Everyone who’s turned against him.

The evil he’s smited and the light that never came to him.

The sacrifice and the torment and the revenge and the redemption.

A hollow knell of misguided feelings and paradoxical intentions.

Ordinarily he'd condemn these thoughts, cast them down and bury them in a shallow grave -- not too far away as to forget what they were, not too deep as to lose sight of what he lost. But today he exhumes them, reanimates them and lets their boney fingers drag him into the earth because right now they’re the only thing guiding him to where he needs to be.

Slowly and surely he feels the physical plane starts to slip away, only mildly aware of his position cross-legged on the floor, the sound of the waverider humming, of the team whispering, the smell of burning wax, Leonard Snart’s ring clutched in his palm...

* * *

_“This can tell you where a loved one has...gone, in the afterlife,” slowly clarifies Sara, her voice hooded._

_John wets his dry lips. “It can.”_

_“Where did you get it?” asks Ray, curiosity crowding around the tightness in his words._

_“Made it myself.”_

_“...It work?” comes a low rumble. Mick. His expression mixed._

_John hesitates. “Yes.”_

_“Why.” The word punches into the still room._

_But John is ready for it. Has been ready for a while. To let his guard down to such things isn’t in his job description. “I needed a way to keep tabs on Astra, she’s on the move again, travelling between planes, wh--”_

_“No, John,” Sara repeats, the hood coming off entirely, preparing for another jab. “Why didn’t you tell us you had this.”_

_And, the gloves are off._

_He regards the arc of Legends surrounding him, only 3 on the ship today, separated from him only by the dark wood desk of the study and the arrangement atop it, and considers his response. But he doesn’t have to think much, to hesitate, because it had only been a matter of time before they were having this conversation._

_And he lets it be known, his voice becoming jaded. “Because I knew what you’d ask of me and trust me, there are some things in this world that you’re better off not knowing-- that you’re not supposed to know.”_

_“So John Constantine is allowed to know the secrets of the universe and no-one else gets a say,” she says, bright and bitter all at once. “Of course, why am I not surprised. It’s not like he knows any different.”_

_It’s devastating, as it’s meant to be, but he plants his feet and blocks the attack, swelling himself up for one of his own._

_“We live in a world where little girls are sent to Hell for nothing more than putting their trust in people who are meant to protect them,” he starts, tightly. “If your sister,” he waves a hand at Sara, “or your fiancée,” at Ray, “or your--,” and makes an unsure movement at Mick, “ended up in a less than savoury place, and there was diddly-squat you could do to change it, could you live with that knowledge?_

_"Wake up in the morning, drink your coffee, take care of a little time fracas over lunch, have a celebratory tipple then pop off to bed, knowing that they are suffering in the deepest, darkest pit in all of creation, and all your superpowers and abilities and prayers would never, could never save them from it.”_

_The silence shifts in its seat._

_“That is why I hold onto the ‘secrets of the Universe’ because it’s a cruel one we live in and it doesn’t consider your feelings,” he says, the bite of the proverbial apple souring his tongue._

_He knows the cost, the potential torment and he knows all the ways that that suffering can take form.  
_

_But...he also knows the Legends._

_“However,” he sighs out, something akin to here-we-bloody-go edging in. “I know you lot will just sneak in here and try to do it anyway so we may as well do it right, here and now.”_

_They look maybe as surprised as he is on hearing the words._

_He rolls up his sleeves and picks up a piece of wood from the board. “This is a shard of Charon’s boat, the ferryman of the Underworld. An artifact of principle importance but with limited power. One loved one. One reading. That’s all I can offer.”_

_They look at each other and come to an unspoken decision. Only one person who has touched all three of their lives. “Leonard,” says Sara, all fight left._

_“Leonard Snart the former,” John says contemplatively, rolling the name around in his mouth. “So be it.”_

* * *

The world starts to unstick.

Slowly at first then more and more quickly.

A ripple of something comes into being. At first it shyly nudges the space around him, probing, curious, until it gains power and John is subject to the odd sensation of having a veil lift and drop over him simultaneously, something grey and not-quite-there but always there. It’s nothing like the violent, churning fall into Hell, the ash and screaming raping his senses, nor the sensation of casting his soul into a different dimension, like missing a stair in the dark and feeling his navel lurch.

It’s odd and it’s unexpected.

But strangest of all, it feels like he’s always been here, in a way.

John opens his eyes.

It takes him a while to get his bearings, or at least something resembling bearings, but after a few blinks his eyes do clear and upon getting to his feet his ears do attempt to balance.

But it takes a few more moments before he can truly process what he’s seeing, what shape the world has chosen to form. Or in this case, form for its current occupant -- not him.

He finds himself, curiously, in a vacuous grey prison. Where cells line the walls, three high, all empty, that he can tell. A corridor stretches to his left leading to a single tier wing, dissolving into endless haze, the same occuring to his right.

Even the ceiling seems to go on forever, a dismal white sky. And yet the whole space feels claustrophobic and off-putting in a way he can’t really describe, like the air doesn’t really go anywhere. In fact, every movement is met with no resistance, barely even a muted sound.

John waves a hand across the space in front of him and almost recoils at the lack of sensation.

Like the dead air of a summer’s day, or doldrums on the sea, there is nothing. 

Even more concerning, John comes muddily to the realisation that he doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Surely only minutes, and yet his mind stumbles over itself trying to agree on a number.

But John has enough experience of the metaphysical world to know that the less time spent in it, the better.

“No time like the present, eh,” he murmurs to himself, scoffing, before deciding to just start putting one foot in front of the other, the silver ring still gripped in his hand.

* * *

_A board with three circles, concentric, one inside the other -- like a scotch egg, he’s always been reminded of -- representing the three planes, Paradiso, Terra Firma, and Inferno._

_“A pease pudding of divination, hinduism, greek mythos and good ol’ Liverpudlian acumen,” he’d told them, going on to explain the mechanics, the significance of the personal item, the dropping of chakras, their final positions detailing the location of the deceased._

_“Like roulette,” Mick had said, nodding to himself gruffly. John hadn’t corrected him._

_He considers their choice of recipient and feels himself grow strangely curious at what the session will reveal._

_John hears them talk of their late teammate on occasion, but it’s never really on purpose -- as if it still hurts a little to do so. And despite his attempts to keep mainly to himself on the ship, the name has still managed to slowly become familiar to him._

_A wistful comment here and there when something jolts their memory, else an anecdote on a merry evening when the booze starts to sink low in the bottle. The picture of a man slowly forming with each tidbit, someone with razor sharp wit, cool demeanor, and a penchant for self sacrifice._

_A noble end. It almost gives John hope for his own soul._

_Ending his musing, he gives a final sweep of the arrangement, and the Legends, and looks at Rory, pointedly. With a tight nod, Mick produces a silver ring from a worn pocket and places it gently on the board._

_With everything set, John centers himself and holds the stones aloft._ _"Last chance," he says with a low voice, a rare display of delicate bedside manner._

_But except for a tiny shuffle, they stand firm and nod to him, the pact set._

_Everything in the room grows thin, and sparse, as if something between the spaces of the world was trying to edge its way in to watch. John grips the stones, mutters the words, and lets them fall._

_They skittle around, hopping this way and that before coming to rest in all circles._

_John looks down and blinks.  
_

_The stones are scooped up again and without preamble, he performs the rite a second time._

_The pattern is just as erratic as before. A yellow chakra in paradiso, a green in terra firma, a purple in inferno, others scattered about randomly._

_“Don’t tell me you already broke it, weasel.”_

_Mick isn’t looking at him but he is glaring at the board as if intimidation will somehow make the stones change their minds and go where they’re supposed to._

_And just where are they supposed to go, John wonders._

_He scoops them up one last time, attracting concerned looks all round. “Third time’s the charm.”_

_But the gems crash and bounce, one errant stone ending up on the floor, some rebounding into the far corners away from the spheres. No rhyme or reason, pure chaos._

_“What does it mean,” asks Sara, crowding more into his space, but John allows it, too astounded to deny her._

_“It means,” John says, gravely, one hand raking through his hair in a tic of discomfort. “That Mr Snart is somewhere he really oughtn’t be.”_

_He feels them all stand up a little straighter._

_Mick looks stony. “Where,” he growls._

_A place where inner strife is hewn into the very architecture and dissonance surges into the air, he reminds himself. Some even refer to it as a fate worse than Hell itself, John recalls, and he rakes a hand through his hair again._

_Self doubt really is the bloody worst._

* * *

All in all it’s a place that seems to be a baker’s dozen of not-quites. Everything not quite right, the air just a tad too warm, the echoes of his feet not so much reverberating as falling flat, the ground just uneven enough for him to notice.

John likens it to the time he hid in the Liverpool University anechoic chamber while fleeing from an enraged faculty cuckold, except that was only for 10 minutes and the door didn’t lock behind him.

The addition of a mild rapping noise pulls him out of his thoughts. Something ahead, something dull, a _thud, thud, thud_ and he makes for it.

By the time he reaches a more intimate part of the prison, he hasn’t the foggiest how much time has passed, one minute and one eternity all rolled into one. All except for the persistent thudding, like an ominous clock tick warning him of some impending circumstance.

But all personal discomfort and confusion leaves John’s mind once he sneaks sight of a semi-familiar figure lounging within a cell on a single bunk, a long line of devil-may-care, throwing a bouncy ball at the wall and catching it. Dressed in blacks and charcoals, the man forms a positive dark beacon in the desolate space, drawing John’s eye like the night draws on the dusk.

Steadying himself on the uneven ground, John allows himself to fall back but only onto some easy charm, a second chance in this place of second chances. “So what’s your story then, handsome.”


	2. Revelations

Despite the stillness of his form, Leonard snaps his head towards him almost immediately and John gets a good look at two high cheekbones, a perfectly shaped widow’s peak and a pair of quite untrustworthy blue eyes that pin him in place.

The silence thrums with something as they regard each other, like circling wolves, and John wonders if the dimension has already taken its toll on the man whose gaze seems to bore through him.

“So, did I make bail?” eventually comes a drawling voice, and it’s so languid that John isn’t sure if it’s a side-effect of being where they are, or just one of the many perks of this particular Mr Snart.

But it is snarky as all hell, he decides, and John responds in kind, already feeling a thread of mutual understanding start to form between them. “Sorry, mate, broke as a joke. But I am hoping I can get you out on early parole, so to speak, before I go.”

Leonard swings his legs to the floor and leans up onto his feet. It’s a graceful thing. He’s all lithe body and long legs, handsome to a fault, a mirror of Leo, but with an entirely different energy humming beneath his visage, something far more captivating, and John can’t help but turn himself towards it like a gormless moth to a blue flame.

“And why is that? You my lawyer?” he drawls out again, a little closer to the bars now.

John feels a calculating gaze sweep over him and he pockets his hands before they do something unacceptable, like fidget. “Oh better than that, a fellow ne’erdowell, you might say.”

A delicate eyebrow raises. “Then it seems you’re on the wrong side of the bars, --?”

John smirks. “John Constantine, and no we’ve not had the pleasure of meeting before.”

 _In a manner of speaking,_ he adds internally.

Leonard hmms, turns with a considering nod and heads back to the bunk, picking up the ball and beginning to bounce it once again. “So, just a friendly reformed crook wandering around a prison all alone, looking to bust cons out in the middle of the day.”

Each strike of the ball hits a patch of wall that seems duller than the stone around it, worn away after considerable use, and John feels the space constrict around him just a little more in pity, a weight making itself known on his shoulders, the responsibility of his task.

He laves a lip. “Something like that.”

“And just how do you propose to do that? No offense but I’ve never met a prison cell I couldn’t break out of...until I ended up here. No guards.” The ball thuds against the wall with more force. “No keyhole.” Again. “No weak spots.“ Again. “Nothing.” A stone chip ricochets off and ends up on the floor, adding to a small but considerable pile of debris.

“But,” Snart sighs, something half-caught between disappointment and the promise of a challenge, “it’s still early days. Can’t always rush these things.”

John swallows but his mouth has gone dryer. It seems his suspicions about the passage of time are correct. And it tips him into action. “Just...how long do you think you’ve been here, Leonard.”

A crease forms above Snart’s brows and he looks John’s way. “Since this morning, give or take an hour. Hard to tell for sure with the broken clock.” And he indicates to a wall behind John’s head where sure enough a clock hangs, stark white against the grey, its hands completely still. Then the crease sinks deeper. “How do you know my name?”

The non-air constricts around John like a straightjacket and his hands have the audacity to sweat. A Decision looms over his head like a dark cloud, and one which he’s not looking forward to making. Tell a man that he’s trapped, potentially until the end of time, and fail to release him, or keep that tidbit to himself and save Leonard his sanity if it all goes tits up.

 _So John Constantine is allowed to know the secrets of the universe and no-one else gets a say?_ his brain unhelpfully supplies, in the voice of a certain canary, no less.

He closes his eyes and sighs out a long suffering, “...Bloody Legends.”

When he opens them again, Leonard is on his feet looking at him with a deep frown and blazing eyes flickering with recognition. “What did you say.” 

For the second time in a few hours John is on the receiving end of a Look but the one Leonard throws at him is especially commanding. John is no pushover but he feels almost compelled to answer truthfully. A man once on top of his game, calling the shots and now in a grey box, locked away, out of the loop, cast aside by the Powers That Be, and John feels a prickle of resentment on his behalf.

“Who are you,” Leonard firmly says again, the drawl gone now.

Decision made, John uncurls his palm and holds up the silver ring between his thumb and forefinger, Leonard's eyes locking onto it almost immediately.

“How much do you know about Purgatory?” John asks, grimly, not even looking down as the bouncy ball falls to the floor with a deafening thud, bounces through the bars and rolls out of sight.

* * *

_“_ _Purgatory? As in Limbo?” says a scandalised Sara._

_“The afterlife’s eternal waiting room and quarantine zone,” John says wearily. “Home of the poor sods who are left in the undecided pile.”_

_“But they get to leave eventually, right?” asks Ray, ever the broad expanse of optimism._

_“Unfortunately, it’s different for every soul,” John says. “Not much is known about the rules of Limbo because it’s not a place people generally come back from. What Purgatory is like for one person can be completely different for another.”_

_There’s a long stretch of silence and John can almost hear the cogs turning in their heroic brains._

_“So, when do we leave?” asks Sara, matter-of-fact._

_“...Come again, love?”_

_“How do we bust him out,” Rory clarifies, shouldering into the conversation and not leaving much room for argument._

_“Unortunately there's only one way out of Limbo and it isn't by 'busting' out,” he replies._

_“Says you," Mick says, fingering his gun, and John mentally prepares the words for an extinguishing spell just in case._

_“There appears to’ve been a conflict of interest where Mr Snart’s fate is concerned,” John explains. “Over which acts is above my paygrade but it’s been a substantial dispute if he’s still not been released. In other words, the soul has to be 'purged' of all self doubt before it can move on, and no amount of physical force will help it 'make parole'."  
_

_“I hate the justice system,” growls Mick to no-one in particular, manic glint in his eye._

_John eyes him warily._

_“We busted Oliver’s soul out of Purgatory once,” says Sara briskly. “No reason we can’t do it again.”_

_“That time involved a free ride from Lucifer himself, something I would be unable to repeat. And the only other way to get there is a bit more old school, single person ticket, so to speak, and of which that,” he says pointing to the shard of Charon’s boat still sat on the desk, “is the cost of admission.”_

_John starts to pace aimlessly towards the drinks globe as the words sink in._

_“So what you're saying is, it's Astra or Leonard,” murmurs Ray from behind him, and John nods his head sagely, tipping back a whiskey._

_He wondered when he’d be back to his default of cosmic plaything._

* * *

After the explanation it remarkably doesn’t take Leonard long to come back to himself but owing to the abstract passage of time it could’ve taken 50 years as far as John knew.

“I’m remembering things,” he’d said, a little faraway, fingering the pinky ring and every now and again looking curiously at his right hand, turning it this way and that.

John didn’t question it, just let the proverbial dust settle.

Eventually, a new line of determination forms above Leonard’s brow and he eyes the cell like he’d enjoy nothing more than to watch it crumble under his gaze. He regards John with fresh vigor, like he’d only just noticed he was there, and perhaps he has, John thinks, as the ennui is finally thrown off. 

He watches as Leonard feeds his slender hands through the bars and leans on his forearms, his fingers curling as if testing the open space beyond. “So, about that parole,” he drawls, head tilting.

Much later, after a few experimental damage-inducing spells to, “Cover all the bases just in case,” John sits slumped against the wall, energy a little more depleted, but satisfied his instincts had at least been confirmed about the architecture of this Limbo.

“So we can’t blast me out of here, nor set the place on fire -- Mick will be crushed to learn, I’m sure,” says Leonard, a wistful smile on his face and warmth in his voice. “So, what’s Plan B.”

John purses his lips, thinking how best to approach this, for Plan B had been the real plan all along it was just...getting his footing.

First and foremost John is an exorcist, able to remove a malicious entity attached to a living soul and cast it back into Hell from whence it came, and over the years he'd just about dealt with every type of demon and malevolent spirit crawling the surface of the Earth. But this wouldn't require the exorcism of a demon or spirit, it was liberation of a soul and it couldn't be done with a palm cross and a font of Holy Water.

Purgatory is also not a physical place, nor is it a plane, it inhabits the space between Earth's very substance, the space left over once all three spheres are taken away. The rules are unknowable, the geography uncharted, and it turned out his abilities were about as useful here as a chocolate teapot.

John is an exorcist, he's good at ripping dark things out of people, but getting someone else to rip their own dark thing from themself, cast out their own demon, required a whole different form of magic.

“You’re the Almighty Judge of the Universe with power over the destiny of all,” he begins, gesticulating a little dramatically, drawing a curious look from the cell, “and your lovely secretary drops a file onto your desk one day entitled, ‘Leonard Snart,’ containing everything in it that he’s ever done, ever thought, ever wished, over the course of his life. And your job is to read it through and decide his fate.”

“Sounds like a dull job,” remarks Leonard, dryly, but not sounding as bored as he did before.

John gives the facial equivalent of a shrug. “Until you get to the saucy details,” he replies with another wink.

The poker face returned to him is impressive but John can almost feel a shadow of mischief hiding behind it.

“You wanna know why ‘I’ would pick this wasteland instead of ticking Columns A or B,” states Leonard after a beat.

John tips his head up in affirmation. “Devil’s advocate and all that.”

“I thought the point of this place was that ‘The Almighty Judge of the Universe’ didn’t have a good enough reason either way. Or just didn’t care.”

“Say that they do in this hypothetical situation,” tries John again, leaning forward on his thighs. In doing so he spies the bouncy ball from earlier and picks it up. “Why are ‘you’ here,” he says, tossing the ball into Leonard's court.

It's caught with a sigh, long and drawn out. “God I hate therapy.”

 _Somewhere in the multiverse, Leo Snart just got a chill down his spine,_ John thinks amusedly, but turns his attention back to the version in front of him, now up and leaning against the wall.

There’s a long silence broken only by the occasional _tap tap tap_ of the metal pinky ring against the bars.

Leonard strikes him as the type of bloke that has to give something his complete thought process before it comes into the world. Even now John can see the eyes glazing and unglazing, the little lines forming and unforming on his brow, the miniscule movements of his mouth as he turns and opens and closes whatever’s on his mind. Seeing it from every angle, finding all the dimensions.

“Because he’s a rogue,” eventually comes the quiet reply. “He doesn’t fit anywhere else.”

“He sacrificed his life for his friends, I’d say that was more than worthy of heavenly accolade,” John retorts. “Friends that wanted to barge in here and save him themselves.”

“And yet, here you are instead,” Leonard reviews, the scrutiny now turning on John. “Why is that.”

John isn’t expecting the speed at which things are suddenly turned on him.

Leonard takes a seat on the bunk once more and leans forward on his thighs, a mirror image of John from earlier. “Tell me John," he says, bouncing the ball back at him. "Why are ‘you’ here.”

* * *

_John is a warlock and a half decent one at that, which means he can not only shape the world to the way he needs it, on occasion, but also summon the words he needs right when he needs them. And it doesn’t matter much whether they’re in Latin, Enochian or Sunday night drunken wailings from the gutter, he prides himself on his ability to say what needs to be said, even if it means carving the words on his skin for all the world to see._

_“Ah bollocks to it all,” he grinds out, and starts fishing for supplies._

_At some point during his search, a hand finds his shoulder but it doesn’t grip or pull, it just rests there. “Wait, you’re going? You’re actually going to do this?” The voice belonging to the hand is almost more timid, and John has to turn to look because he’s never heard Sara like this before._

_John is a warlock which means he also knows when words aren’t needed, and he only nods._

_The hug takes him by surprise but the words forming in his mouth don’t._

_“I’m the only one on this bloody ship who, best case scenario, is gona end up there himself come the end of days, anyway,” he says as the arms loosen and Sara steps back. “The only one who spends everyday at odds with himself, every waking moment deciding whether or not to carry on my sorry existence and get people around me hurt or worse, or pack it all in and let it happen anyway._

_“All my life I’ve hurt people, conned them, made people’s lives a living Hell and now I find myself on this ship with you lot, hunted down by someone I’ve spent years trying to save and I don’t know which way is up anymore._

_“So I may not know Mr Snart like you do, but from what I do know about him, I reckon we have more in common than we know. So who knows, eh? I go pay him a visit and maybe we can help each other out.”_

_“...And he’s bloody gorgeous, so there’s that,” he says, cheekily, earning a punch from a not-so-timid fist._

* * *

"Why am I here," John repeats to himself, rolling the ball in his fingers. “Because we have something in common, Mr Snart, apart from being devilishly handsome and extraordinarily astute--”

“Debatable.”

“--and that is, the wars waging inside our heads are much worse than anything else going on outside of them." It comes out in a defeated kind of way, but only insomuch that he feels all those years avoiding confessional booths has now all been for naught.

“And how do you figure that, you read minds too?” comes the snarky reply.

John catches his gaze and holds it in rough hands. “You performed a self sacrifice, you laid down your life in place of someone else's which by Divine decree ought to have shot you straight up to the pearly gates. But instead you ended up in this fine establishment,” he says, waving his hand around with a half arsed flourish.

“Which tells me that even though you were redeemed in all manner of the word, in the end you either couldn’t forgive yourself or you felt unworthy of what comes after, which makes you and I too alike for my comfort.”

Leonard looks imperiously at him and John concludes the man must have been a cat in his past life.

Then he gets to his feet and walks to the bars, feeling the need to stand on ceremony for his next words, because this is what it all boils down to, what it all means, and really it’s just about saying it out loud more than anything else. And just maybe, Leonard could do with hearing them too.

“Fellas like you and me, we linger in the inbetween, in that moral grey area, never committing, never staking our allegiance, so we hang back, watching and waiting and never reaching out because we know what that does to people, and we know what we are, what we’ve done.

“And...all it does is turn you into a grumpy old wanker,” he finishes, lamely.

Snart gives a throaty snort and the lines of his face loosen into something more relaxed, more content, but with that slight smirk at the corner of his mouth, and if he keeps doing that then John is in serious trouble of getting distracted.

“What I’m getting at is, you’re quite literally in a prison of your own making, mate. And there’s only one way out of it.” And he bounces the ball through the bars once more into Leonard's palm.

Once he says it aloud, John knows something has slotted into place because the line atop Leonard’s brow gradually disappears with each passing moment, as he turns the thoughts around, appraising all their corners.

And after eternity and one minute, Leonard wordlessly walks over to stand right before him, and for the first time John takes note of a new emotion beginning to settle across his face -- acceptance.

He even swears that some colour begins to seep into his surroundings at the same moment, the space becoming less hazy, the walls turning more solid, even feeling a caress of air along his brow from Leonard’s exhaling breath.

This close, John can see every detail of his face and the thoughts dancing behind his eyes, and it’s unfair how handsome the man is.

They stand face to face, on the level.

Leonard says nothing, simply makes a resolute noise, grips the bars with slender fingers, and gives it a yank.

The cell swings open.

* * *

Breeze is the first thing John notices, whipping through the corridor. Cool, fresh and caressing every spare inch of skin from his clammy brow to the scant hairs on his chest, and it should be a sin how good it feels after the thick malaise. Like his body feels more present because of it, more outlined. The second thing he notices is Leonard standing over the threshold with his head tipped back, eyes closed, lips parted, seemingly enjoying it more than he, and god what a sight to behold that is -- both in the realisation that the man is free, and at the spectacle of it.

That long white expanse of neck catching the light, the strong, lithe shapes of his chest, the dip between his clavicles, the rise of his adam’s apple.

John has seen his fair share of nice things over his life, unfortunately outweighed by nasty things, but he can’t quite remember the last time he saw a throat as lovely as that and he sucks a bottom lip into his mouth.

Even nicer is the sigh that comes out of it and John wonders, loosely, what other sounds are capable of being urged from it.

He only manages to pocket his hands and rise himself into something a bit sturdier looking at the last second, right as those blue eyes flit to his.

Who beckons who is unknown, perhaps they do it together, but there’s a meeting in the middle of the space, black shirt against white, blue eyes dropping to a red tie.

“You know it’s customary for a damsel to give a small token of appreciation to her rescuer once free of the tower.” John likes to think it came out sexy but by the look on the other’s face, a kind of _really?_ he thinks it might’ve just leant more towards 'twat.'

Leonard takes a step closer to him, and John didn’t think it was possible for a man to saunter in only one step, but it's been a day of revelations so John takes it in his stride. “Pretty sure to be a white knight you need a noble steed,” drawls Snart.

And John fights down the urge to make a lewd joke. He settles halfway on, “No steed, but I do have a mighty lance.”

Something quick and sharp flashes across Leonard’s eyes. “Do tell her I said hi.”

 _The man is quick, I’ll give him that,_ thinks John, until he saunter-steps forward again with a slowness that rebels against the very thought of doing anything quick, and John’s hands finally give in and start fidgeting.

“That is something else we have in common, however,” says Leonard, quietly.

John raises a brow in askance.

“We both chose the Legends, in the end,” Leonard answers, saying it in a way that suggests he’s not entirely pleased with the idea but just can’t summon the energy anymore to stop it, and for some reason it makes John smile up to his eyes.

“You also wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t,” he then adds, taking away the comment forming on John’s tongue. “But if it helps, you can think of it like they chose you.”

“For a bloke who hates therapy you’ve certainly got a knack for it,” John remarks, only getting a huffed laugh in response.

It was, however, a unique perspective.

“Do you know where you’re going now?” John asks. "Not that it's any of my business but, something tells me you can make the choice yourself."

“Yeah,” comes the simple response, and that’s all that needed to be said.

The cool air seems to emanate from Leonard’s very self, and perhaps some of it does. All John knows is he’d like nothing more than to have more of it.

“But before I go, I do agree thanks are in order, though,” comes a low pitched voice. And there’s no drawl present, no teasing lilt, just an honest tone and one, John gets the impression, wasn’t used very often in life.

“And what might you give in thanks,” John mumbles out, eyes shamelessly dipping to the pink mouth so close to him.

Leonard tuts and it’s teasing and earnest and dangerous all at once. “I’m a criminal, John. I don’t give, I _take_.”

And as if to prove it, a slender hand grabs his red tie and pulls so that John’s mouth meets abruptly against a smooth set of lips.

And Leonard _takes_ everything John has with startling efficiency, his lips, his waist, his very breath and conscious thought. Dipping here and gripping there, mapping and casing, catching a pulse and feeling it quicken.

But most of all, he takes his time. Moving deliberate and slow, savouring a last vestige of Earth, of a life he had before.

And John willingly gives it through every tip of his head and flex of his jaw, opening himself up and letting the man taste some of the real world, letting him hold something living and breathing all the while hoping it’s enough to last him the journey.

It takes John a few dazed moments to realise when Leonard is no longer kissing him, his thoughts still garbled, the ghost of slender fingers still exploring his skin.

But he still keeps his eyes closed long after the fact, simply letting out a breath and centering himself, tasting the last trace of the man on his lips and huffing a laugh through his nose at the whole thing. "White knight in-bloody-deed."

Once he opens his eyes and the spaces start closing up, he knows that this is it, a soul no longer anchoring the prison together. So he allows the new barrage of feelings to pour into him, buoying him outwards and returning him home.

His mind filled with purpose and intent. 

All the people he’s saved.

All the people who’ve sided with him.

The good he’s done and the things he’s protected.

A cacophony of images, places and people.

And despite the sappiness of it, he lets it fill all the cracks of his soul.

And the world starts to stick back together, back into the shape of a Waverider.

It happens quickly at first but then in slower more significant patches over time, the new pieces fitting in -- in the way the Legends welcome him back with enthusiastic hugs and bright smiles, in the way the dark and evil things seem to hold off for just a little longer than usual, in the way the weight atop his shoulders seems to lessen, in the way his own soul feels just a smidge more connected to the Earth.

It takes a good while longer for him to notice the theft of his wallet, but the bouncy ball and pinky ring left in its place are a fair payoff in John’s book.

No doubt in his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Send hatemail to [kleptoandpyro.tumblr.com](https://kleptoandpyro.tumblr.com)
> 
> Interested in talking DC Arrowverse with other writers? Get involved in a community where we basically talk ships and fanworks and write fic all day long? Find beta readers and like minded folk?
> 
> Then join us in the [The Flarrowverse Shipyard Discord Server](https://discord.gg/D4RFsRq)!


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